


Like There's No One Around

by Cobrilee



Series: Not Another Sterek Story [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Coming In Pants, Frottage, Jealous Jackson, Lap dancing, M/M, references to Jackson/Stiles, strip clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 04:56:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9863828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cobrilee/pseuds/Cobrilee
Summary: Stiles is determined that he's going to enjoy a night out with the boys, even though he's bummed Danny can't be there. Then a genie appears on stage to give him three wishes. He only needs one.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Inell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inell/gifts).



> For the lovely Inell, as a belated birthday gift. Sorry it took so long, my dear, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!

Stiles isn’t sure whether he should be disappointed or relieved that Danny has to work tonight. He’s bummed, of course, that on one of the rare nights he can actually go out and enjoy himself a little, his best friend/crush/love of his life has to work. He’s also quite grateful that Danny isn’t part of the group that’s gone to Glowsticks; the last thing he needs is to make it obvious that none of the guys there can keep his eyes off Danny himself.

“Stilinski, quit moping that Danny isn’t here,” Jackson demands, annoyance shining in his voice and expression. “We’re here to have fun, not watch you act like a sad sack because all the dick getting shoved in your face isn’t the dick you want.”

“I want Danny for more than his dick,” Stiles shoots back in a lofty voice. “He’s smart, funny, and a really great guy.” He grins impishly. “His dick simply makes him the complete… package.”

Jackson, Isaac, and Boyd groan. “That was painful,” Isaac protests. “Let’s just get you laid so you stop with the pining and being pitiful.”

“Please, he’ll never stop being pitiful,” Jackson scoffs, and Stiles debates punching him in the chest, but he’s pretty sure it would only hurt his hand.

Instead, he settles in to watch the next few acts. Jackson managed to snag them a table front-and-center, mostly because he has cash and a desire to have the aforementioned faceful of dick, and Stiles can appreciate the toned, glistening bodies gyrating in front of him. There’s one sinfully gorgeous man who’s almost as dark as Boyd, dancing to Color Me Badd’s “I Wanna Sex You Up” and wearing bright yellow spandex booty shorts that come off blissfully fast, revealing a matching thong pouch. Stiles gracefully pushes a few bills under the front edge of the pouch, and the man winks and smiles, showing off teeth that gleam against his mahogany skin.

Before Stiles can debate whether the man would be interested in going home with him, the next number starts and a Channing Tatum-wannabe comes out to the opening strains of Ginuwine’s “Pony”. Stiles wants to groan at how cliche and trite it is, but they  _ are _ at a strip club, so he supposes it was to be expected. Besides, Jackson lights up when the guy comes over and thrusts his hips in his face, and he stuffs a fistful of bills in the silver booty shorts. The guy winks and turns, rolling his hips so Jackson could nearly bite his ass if he wanted. Jackson doesn’t, but only because he almost got arrested the last time he did it.

Stiles’ phone vibrates against his ass and he slides it out, frowning down at the text from Lydia admonishing him to forget about Danny for a night and just have fun. He’s in the process of replying, letting her know that there is all sorts of male beauty on display in front of him and he’s thoroughly enjoying it despite Danny’s absence, when he hears Jackson cursing and feels Isaac’s elbow in his ribs. 

Glancing up, he vaguely registers two things at once: the song is now Christina’s “Genie in a Bottle,” and the man on stage wearing gauzy harem pants and a tiny, glittering gold vest over oiled abs is the man he’s been in love with for two years.

“What the fuck,  _ Danny _ ?” he splutters, dropping his phone and shooting straight up in his seat. 

Danny looks startled as he catches Stiles’ reaction, but then he smiles a little wolfishly. Stiles stares, dazed, as Danny rolls his hips and shimmies and undulates, making his way gradually to the edge of the stage where Stiles and the rest of their friends are sitting. Isaac is poking and prodding him while Jackson is practically howling, and Stiles’ face is flaming but he sticks his hand out, complete with a twenty-dollar bill that represents an entire hour of dealing with his obnoxious boss.

It’s more than worth it when Danny sinks to his knees, rocking his hips forward so Stiles can tuck the bill into the edge of his pants. Danny flashes him a brief wink before rising smoothly to his feet, then turns and shakes his ass a little. Stiles is tempted to smack it, but the memory of Jackson in cuffs and panicking has him pulling his hand back. He’s pretty sure Danny wouldn’t tattle to the club owner, but his best friend can have a wickedly sharp sense of humor. Better not to risk it.

Stiles can’t deny that he’s mesmerized by Danny’s fluid dancing, nor the perfect, glorious ass he shows off when he un-velcroes the gauzy material of the harem pants and flings it to the rear of the stage. He’s seriously disappointed when the song ends and Danny makes his way offstage, stooping briefly to pick up the flimsy material and the vest that had also been discarded at some point within the past several minutes.

“Did you see that?” Jackson asks, turning wide eyes on Stiles, who rolls his eyes and snorts.

“No, I was rendered blind about ten minutes ago,” he snipes sarcastically, and Jackson scowls at him.

“You don’t have to be an asshole,” he mutters.

“Of course he does, it’s part of his charm,” Danny interjects cheerfully, walking up to their table and still only wearing the gold shorts that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. Stiles tries to keep his eyes on Danny’s, he really does, but that’s one pot of gold he can’t resist.

Isaac claps him on the shoulder as he seats himself with the rest of the group. “How long have you been hiding this from us?”

Danny shrugs, not looking the least bit sheepish. “About two months. I didn’t want anyone giving me shit.”

“We wouldn't give you shit,” Isaac denies, but Jackson is already smirking. 

“Stilinski would definitely be giving you something, though.”

“Jackson!” Stiles hisses, mortified. Jackson settles back into his chair, arms crossed over his chest, derisive sneer firmly in place.

Danny shifts to study Stiles speculatively, but the bartender gestures at him and his attention is diverted. Stiles breathes a sigh of relief as Danny stands. “I've gotta go make the rounds, make sure none of these uptight, sexually repressed closet cases are deprived of the opportunity to have my ass grinding against their dicks,” he remarks, referring to the several tables of men in suits and ties. “I'll come back after my second number.”

He slips away, disappearing into the crowd as it swallows him up. The mental imagery of swallowing does not help the half-chub Stiles has been sporting since he recognized Danny, along with the instantaneous thought that he'd like to rub  _ him _ the right way. 

“I'm going to kick your ass,” he mutters sourly, directing the comment at Jackson. 

Jackson rolls his eyes. “Like you could fucking try,” he scoffs. 

“Jackson, why don't you leave the kid alone?” Boyd sighs, and Stiles is almost offended because he's only two years younger, but then Boyd grins innocently. “After all, it's not his fault that you're jealous he wants Danny's dick instead of to give you his.”

Stiles preens smugly, then the words register and he chokes. “Wait,  _ what _ ?”

Jackson is flushing while simultaneously scowling at Boyd. “You're a lying sack of shit, Vernon.”

“No, he's not.” This comes from Isaac, who's mostly been watching the exchange in amusement. “Every time you get drunk you whine about how everyone always wants Danny, and can't you just have one guy you want?”

Jackson glares mutinously and stalks away from the table, leaving Stiles to wonder if he got wasted without realizing it, because what. the. fuck.

“Don't feel guilty, Stilinski,” Boyd says easily. “He'll go bend over for some pretty boy stripper and be over it by morning.”

“Yeah, but… really? Jackson wants me?”

“He’s drunkenly written odes to your dick,” Isaac informs him, and, whoa.

Stiles glances after where Jackson’s disappeared. Maybe… He shakes his head. Jackson would be a “I can’t have Danny, so I’ll settle for you” fuck, which wouldn’t be fair to any of them. But he’s still tempted. Jackson has a pretty mouth and a pretty ass, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t contemplated stuffing his cock in both.

Danny’s a stripper. Right. Okay. Back to the real topic at hand.

He barely pays attention for the rest of the evening, registering only vaguely when Jackson rejoins their table, a smug smirk firmly entrenched on lips that are now suspiciously red and puffy. Stiles feels a little bit better that Jackson obviously wasn’t off crying in a corner over him, which makes him feel less guilty about eagerly looking forward to Danny’s second routine.

The lights in the club go dark, brightly-colored lights flash around the stage, and a pulsing electronica-like beat thrums through the crowd. Stiles groans. He knows before the dancer even steps out on stage that it will be Danny, because no one could possibly love this song more than Danny does.

Sure enough, Danny struts out onto the stage, clad in an almost identical replica of Britney’s costume from her “Gimme More” video-the fishnets, the tiny black shorts, the studded vest unzipped halfway down, even the fedora. Stiles wants to hide his face in his hands because it should be embarrassingly ridiculous, but goddamn, if anyone could pull that train wreck off it’s Danny. And he does. Boy, he does.

Danny pivots to embrace the pole, dropping into a crouch, his thighs spread wide to show off the not-insignificant bulge in those shorts that, honest to God, Stiles has no idea how they’re still in one piece. They should be coming apart at the seams for all the length and girth they’re trying to contain. As Danny slides his way back up the pole, his hips roll forward and his head goes back, pressing his cock against the pole and grinding into it when he dips backward. When he straightens again, he rolls his hips forward a couple more times, directing his smoldering, heated glances at Stiles as he fucks into the pole. 

Stiles is certain his erection is obvious to everyone whose eyeline he’s in, including Danny’s. He can only pray the dark lighting of the club is keeping him from being thoroughly exposed. He debates rushing off to the bathroom to jerk himself to orgasm, not that it would take more than a couple strokes at this point, but the thought of missing even one second of Danny’s dance has his ass glued to his chair. 

When Danny swings his hips their way, Stiles is prepared with a handful of fives. He’d love to have a handful of twenties, but he’s not rich, and besides, Danny owes him fifty from that bet at Ronnie Clemenson’s party anyway. He can deal.

Danny takes his time getting over to Stiles, starting instead at Boyd and Isaac’s side of the table. Boyd tosses a single dollar bill on the ground at Danny’s feet, bright white teeth gleaming as he grins challengingly. Isaac holds up his hands, indicating that he’s not getting his angelic fingers anywhere near Danny’s cock. Jackson, in a generous mood since he clearly found someone to either blow or take home with him that night, tucks a fifty-dollar bill in his shorts as he leans over, placing even more strain on the stressed material.

Feeling reckless, Stiles stands and takes the single step until his knees bump the side of the stage, his heart tripping over itself as Danny shifts to stand right in front of him. Instead of tucking the bills into his shorts neatly, one by one, or tidying the stack to be able to push it all in, Stiles shoves the entire fistful of bills in at once. They go everywhere, some pushing down deep, some barely hanging on at the edges, and Stiles gives Danny a dark grin. Danny returns it, pulling at the edge of his shorts to make just enough room for Stiles to push at the loosely-hanging bills, his fingertips dipping below the waistband to move them further down. 

With a bravado that he didn’t know he possessed (mixed with no small amount of stupidity, which he knows he has in spades), he slides his hand down the front of Danny’s shorts as he pulls back, patting at his bulge, ostensibly to check that the bills are all firmly in place. He has no idea what’s going on with the money, but he does know everything is mighty firm, all right.

Before anyone can catch him and kick him out, Stiles steps quickly back from the stage and resumes his place at the table. The look on Danny’s face is hungry, and Stiles is willing to bet that one of them won’t make it into their own bed at the end of the night.

The music ends, the lights come back up, and Danny sashays off the stage, swinging his ass and looking back over his shoulder to wink and blow a kiss at the crowd. He drops to pick up the discarded vest, and Stiles prays for those seams to finally split. They hold, though, and Danny and his gorgeous oiled abs and swollen, shorts-covered cock disappear behind the curtain at the back of the stage. Stiles tries not to be disappointed, but damn, he could watch that man strut and dirty dance for hours.

“Damn, Stilinski, take that boner somewhere else,” Jackson mutters, disgust written all over his face. Stiles knows better now, but he’s not cruel enough to tease Jackson. 

“I’d love to, but I’m pretty sure there isn’t a stripper here who isn’t your sloppy seconds,” Stiles replies, voice saccharine, and okay, he’ll totally tease Jackson. Just not about how he wants Stiles’ cock but can’t have it. “And I’m not about to go fuck one of those glory holes in the bathroom.”

“Good call,” Danny agrees as he rejoins them. He’s out of the black shorts and wearing a pair made of sparkly pink Lycra that mold to every curve of his ass and the bulge of his cock. Stiles wants to poke fun at him, but damn it, he even makes sparkly pink booty shorts look smokin’. “Those things are disease central. I’ve never understood how men are so stupid that they put themselves at risk for a little bit of anonymous sex. It’s not worth it.” He shrugs, dimpling. “I’m absolutely willing to take the massive amounts of money they shell out for the privilege of seeing my bare ass, though.”

“Yeah, how much money did you make that round?” Isaac puts in, rolling his eyes. “I mean, from our table alone you made a hundred bucks.”

“Between what was onstage and what I ended up with in my shorts,” and here he casts an amused look at Stiles, “I came out with just shy of six hundred.”

Stiles chokes. “I am so in the wrong line of work.”

Danny surveys him, a wicked grin curving his lips. “I could have you working here before the night is over if you want.” Stiles gapes at him, mouth flopping open like a fish. “Some of our regulars would go crazy for your twink look.”

“Hey!” Stiles protests. “I’m not a twink! I have muscles now, damn it, and my shoulders are pretty broad.”

Danny smirks as his eyes travel leisurely down the length of Stiles’ body, then back up. The whole thing takes a good thirty seconds. “You’ve still got that lean, lithe thing working for you. And I’ve seen you dance at home. You shake that ass here like you do in your apartment, and you’ll have men lining up to shove twenties at your dick.”

“Ugh,” Jackson whines, tipping his head back to glare at the ceiling. “You two are fucking disgusting. Here,” he grumbles, throwing another hundred at Danny. “Give him a fucking lap dance and just get this mating dance over with already.”

The grin slips off Danny’s face until he looks hungry, eyes hooded, and Stiles feels like his gaze is burning right through him. “You okay with that, Stiles?”

“Uh, yeah?” he offers, swallowing hard, and Danny grins again, slow and sharp. He rises slowly from his chair and turns, presenting his ass to Stiles. Lowering himself, he grips Stiles’ thighs and spreads them slightly, giving himself better access. At the first press of his ass to Stiles’ cock, Stiles swears he’s not going to make it.

“How do you like it?” Danny murmurs, rolling his hips and grinding his ass into Stiles’ lap, and Stiles is pretty sure he has no clue what Danny just asked because there were words, and words require braining, and braining is not so much with the happening. In fact, Stiles is pretty sure there are no brains to be found anywhere in his body, because even that old adage of guys thinking with their dick has flown out the window, and his dick is going based on pure instinct.

“Uh?” he grunts, and Danny laughs. “I, uh, like whatever. Whatever you’re doing is good. Yeah, that,” he groans, tipping his head back and arching his throat as Danny slides his hands up Stiles’ thighs and tucks his thumbs into the grooves of Stiles’ hips. Danny rocks his hips back slowly, steadily, and Stiles knows that he’s feeling the press of Stiles’ very insistent erection against his backside.

“Can I turn around?” Danny asks lowly, and Stiles nods, dazed, and then Danny is seamlessly twisting in his lap until he’s straddling it, his thighs hooked over Stiles’ and their cocks pressed tightly together. 

Stiles is vaguely aware that his friends are getting up around them and vacating the table, but he doesn’t care, because Danny is perched in his lap and they’re both hard as fuck, and Danny is still rolling his hips, harder and faster, and dear God, Stiles is going to come in his pants. “Danny!” he hisses. “Don’t do this to me!”

“What?” Danny murmurs, draping his body forward so he can loop his arms around Stiles’ neck, his breath hot on Stiles’ ear, and yes, there are definitely teeth pressed to his throat. “Don’t get you off? Don’t make you come so hard it makes you want to praise deities?” His lips are on Stiles’ jaw, pressing biting, bruising kisses into it. “Don’t make you have to go home with your underwear full of come, every sticky step reminding you of this moment?”

Stiles lets out a whimper as Danny rubs their erections together, his lower body rocking hard against Stiles’, and the erotic, dirty words push him over the edge. His hips buck and stutter as he comes, a wet, hot rush that fills his briefs just as Danny had described. Looking up into Danny’s face as it hovers just above his own, Stiles expects to see a smirk, a knowing look. Instead, he sees Danny’s face screwed up in concentration as he continues to thrust his body down against Stiles’, his motions more focused, more intent. 

“Danny?” he whispers, and Danny leans into him, his face pressed into the junction between his shoulder and neck, his lips pressed against Stiles’ throat as he ruts into his lap. Stiles knows there are serious rules against what they’re doing, but it’s intermission and the stage and surrounding areas are empty. As he glances around, he can see that no one is really interested in watching one of the strippers give a customer a lap dance. 

The tiny bit of confidence based on the lack of attention they’re receiving makes Stiles grow bold. His hands find the globes of Danny’s ass and he squeezes, pulling Danny harder against him. Danny moans into his neck and Stiles can feel the way his balls tighten up. “Come for me,” he breathes, and Danny groans, his own thrusts becoming erratic as he jerks, coming in his tight pink shorts. 

They both still, and Danny pulls himself back a little. Stiles is pretty sure he forgot how to breathe sometime in the last several minutes. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Danny cuts him off with a wry grin. “If you say ‘well, that happened’, I’m going to punch you,” he informs Stiles. “I will also withhold blowjobs until at least tomorrow.”

“Blowjobs, huh?” Stiles asks, and Danny grins, loosening his grip from around Stiles’ neck and sliding off his lap into one of the chairs vacated by their friends. “You drive a hard bargain there, Mr. Mahealani. I’m highly invested in blowjobs, especially ones that come from you.”

Danny flashes one of his more charming smiles. “I have one more song, and I have to make another round of the club, see if I can get a few more lap dances out of this crowd. Then we can go home.”

Stiles likes the idea of going home, but frowns instead. “You’re not going to give any of them the same kind of lap dance you gave me, are you?”

Danny looks down at his shorts, which are now a very dark pink in front. “You’re the only one who can make me lose control at work like that,” he admits, voice husky, and Stiles thinks it won’t take much before he’s ready for one of those blowjobs. “I’ve got to go in the back to change and get cleaned up before I head back out on the floor. Come with me.”

Stiles is out of his seat in a blink, following Danny back behind the stage area to the dressing room. There are other dancers in there, in various stages of undress, and Danny gestures to a couch. Stiles sinks down onto it, watching greedily as Danny pulls the shorts down and steps out of them. There’s come clinging to his softened cock, wetting the curls at the base of it, and yeah, Stiles is ready. He’s so ready.

Danny cleans himself up with a towel and slides on another pair of shorts, this one a bright blue. “I won’t be long,” he promises, tucking himself into the shorts and arranging his cock for maximum bulge. His eyes flash, dark and wicked. “I’ll only walk the floor once, then I’ll come back here. Play your cards right, Stilinski, and you might get yourself a private show.”

Stiles swallows past a dry throat. “Can we make it one with audience participation?”

Instead of answering, Danny leans in and kisses him, mouth open and wet and demanding. Stiles grabs his hips, pulls him back down into his lap, and returns the kiss with equal fervor. Danny’s hands are in his hair, and his are clutching at the sinewy cords of muscle in Danny’s back and shoulders, alternately stroking his fingertips over the smooth skin and scratching his nails lightly against it.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Stiles,” Danny whispers as he breaks the kiss. “Or at the very least cost me my job.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Stiles promises in a throaty murmur, and Danny groans. 

“I have to get back out there. Behave, okay? I’ll be back in a little while.”

Stiles gives him a sassy salute and Danny laughs as he pulls himself off Stiles’ lap, sauntering off toward the front of the club. Stiles nods to some of the other dancers as they stream past him, glancing around speculatively. He’s never had sex in the dressing room of a strip club. He bets he can get Danny to help him cross that one off his bucket list.

But first, he’s going to clean himself up. Danny wasn’t lying about the sticky underwear.


End file.
